


Nothing We Can't Resolve

by Merica_grace



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Bisexual Endeavour Morse, Endeavour Morse - Freeform, Fluff I guess??, M/M, endeavour s2, everybody is a little bit in love with Morse, it doesn't explicitly say he's bi but I headcanon him as such and he kisses a guy so yeah, post-Sway, side character's time to shine, soft, you can pry bi Morse from my cold dead hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:00:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22619767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merica_grace/pseuds/Merica_grace
Summary: “I, uh, I don’t suppose you’d like to join me for a drink?"After Luisa Armstrong's funeral, Morse bumps into a lonely Alan Burridge.
Relationships: Endeavour Morse/Alan Burridge
Comments: 10
Kudos: 29





	Nothing We Can't Resolve

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the wonderful @georgefancys and @jasmiinitee on tumblr! It's been too long since I've written fic and I've never done anything with proper romance so it's been nice to give it a go, please let me know what you think!

Morse didn’t know why he decided to take that route home after the funeral. He just did.

The sky was tinged a beautiful orange pink, far too pretty for so mournful a day, as he wandered through the streets of Oxford. It wasn’t a particularly busy afternoon, but there were a few people dipping in and out of shops, strolling arm in arm down the street and onto the waiting buses or running in vain for one just departing. Still, it was odd to see the bubble of stillness that encased Burridge’s as he approached it. No passing trade save for a quick glance in the windows, no warm welcoming lights cast on the various displays of clothes and homewares, no gentle piano drifting from the doorway. But wait, Morse’s step faltered. There was something in the doorway. A figure, shrouded in the shadows and fiddling with the lock. Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible in what was becoming a rapidly more deserted area of the street, he approached cautiously. Even stooped over slightly, their head dipped out of view, the figure seemed rather tall, not wideset but not slim either. A man, most likely. Morse was barely a few steps away when the figure straightened and turned.

“Mr Burridge.”

“Oh, Detective, hello.” The man seemed a little startled but met Morse with as much of a smile as one could be expected to manage so soon after such events. He was still dressed as he had been at the funeral, in a suit, tie and a dark coat. More subdued than usual.

“Is everything okay?” Morse nodded in the direction of the door.

“Yes, thank you. I walked Mrs Deeks back to the bus after the… after Mrs Armstrong’s funeral, and decided to pick up one or two things from my office while I was nearby. The lock really is difficult sometimes.” As if to remind himself, he tested the handle. The door did not budge. Satisfied, he stepped out from beneath the overhang, and ever so slightly closer to Morse. “I, uh, I don’t suppose you’d like to join me for a drink? All the other staff have gone their own way and I…” he hesitated.

Morse thought for a moment. He didn’t really know Mr Burridge all that well, but the young man had been very amiable throughout the case and with everything that had happened over the past few weeks, with the stranglings, Jellicoe, Norman and now Luisa, he could understand the desire for some company for a short while. “Alright, where did you have in mind?”

The two walked in close, companionable quiet to a pub not far from the store. When they arrived, Morse went to the bar for drinks while Burridge wove through the building in search of a table. Morse watched him, moving swiftly but gently and nodding hello or pausing for a brief chat with familiar faces, most likely regular customers. He was certainly personable. Even in the occasional times Morse had spoken to him on the case, he had struck him as having a soft of nervous charm about him – competently authoritative in his work, but softly spoken and polite with both staff and the police alike. “It’s Alan, please,” he had said, simply as that. Morse was so unused to using people’s first names that he had continued to use Mr Burridge, but the casual familiarity had not escaped him.

Drinks in hand, he made his way to the small table in the corner. Mr Burridge – Alan, he noted silently – looked up and gave him another smile as he placed the glass of brandy in front of him.

“Thank you. Do you still go by Detective when you aren’t on duty or…?”

“Ah, no. Just Morse,” he replied with a slight chuckle. It seemed like Alan was going to ask, as most people did, why he didn’t offer a first name, but thankfully he just raised his glass in a sombre toast before taking a sip.

“So, Morse, how long have you been a policeman?”

Pleasantries, questions about work and family and discussion of the merits of Oxford, as well as another round of drinks or two, had given way to a bout of comfortable silence. Alan thought over the past few weeks. Only in the job three months, just starting to make a mark on the way things were, and no doubt things would be different when they reopened. The staff certainly wouldn’t be the same – many of them had been fond of Luisa and Norman, as had he, and others had worked and been friends with Mr Huggins. Yes, it would take time. He looked over at Morse, off in his own world, and wondered if he was thinking about the same things, or if there was something else, perhaps something work-related that he couldn’t even begin to imagine.

“They’ll be closing soon,” he said, Morse blinking back to the present. “Would you like another?” A nod, and he fetched a final round. When he sat back down, he broached the more serious question that had been at the back of his mind for a good part of the evening.

“I suppose you see this sort of thing a lot in your line of work. Is it difficult? To deal with it, I mean?” He watched, as Morse contemplated a moment. The detective really did have the most fascinating eyes, accented by a smattering of freckles.

“I don’t know. Thursday says it’s best to leave it at the front door, or to find something to hold on to so you don’t carry it around with you. Sometimes you do, though.”

“Do you?” Alan asked suddenly. He didn’t know why – maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the more melancholic turn they both seemed to have taken, maybe it was the fact that it was just the two of them, sitting close together in an empty corner of a pub where there was nobody nearby who knew who they were and what they had both experienced those weeks.

Morse seemed taken aback by the question, but he responded all the same. “Some cases are harder to shake. If something happens that makes it more personal, it just sticks with you. But there’s always a new case to focus on, you have to put it to one side at least.” The comment seemed like it was perhaps aimed internally, at something in particular, but Morse made eye contact and offered a wry shrug. Alan understood a little of what he meant, especially now, and the notion hung unspoken between them.

The bell for last orders broke through the moment, and Alan glanced down at the empty glasses on the table. “Shall we?”

The sky was dark and punctuated by stars as they left. Around them, their air was crisp as the frost set in, and both men burrowed a little deeper into their coats. As Alan had decided it would be best to leave his car at Burridge’s and walk home, they both agreed to take the same route for a while, before Morse had to branch off for his apartment. They were both a little surprised, therefore, when their quiet chatter broke off to reveal that they had reached the door to his house. Alan laughed, and Morse couldn’t help but smile to see the weight lift from his shoulders.

“Well, you certainly are an engaging conversation partner, Morse.” He placed a hand briefly on the other man’s shoulder. “It’s a pity we had to meet under such circumstances, but I had a lovely evening. Thank you.” Morse had a sudden flash of the first time Alan had said those same words. In the loading bay, discussing the shoplifting that had occurred before all this. It was a far cry from how he was now – standing mere inches away under a street light, the neat flick of his hair now almost delicately dishevelled, and yet he still maintained a kind of sparkle in his eyes, crinkled as they were by the upturned corners of his lips. He also remembered Alan’s own admission that he lived alone. And so it wasn’t entirely unexpected that when he didn’t immediately move to leave, partly for being too deep in thought and partly out of an unwillingness he didn’t yet want to acknowledge, Alan asked if he would like to come in for one more drink and he said yes.

The house was nice, Morse thought. Not overly big or extravagant, but there was plenty of space and some touches of character – a painting here, a small stack of books there. It was interesting getting to know more about the man from this glance into his private self and not what he had been told earlier in the evening. Alan took his coat and guided him to an intimate living room with soft warm lighting, and returned a moment later with a bottle of scotch and two glasses. His curl of hair was now back in its rightful place, but the flush to his cheeks betrayed the signs of the drinking earlier and he had loosened his collar and removed the tie completely. Morse wasn’t seated, but instead standing by the mantelpiece and gazing at the landscape painting above it. Alan poured the scotch and placed Morse’s glass on the mantel beside him.

“The Lake District. My family used to holiday there, and I go back when I can. It’s one of my favourite places.”

“Derwentwater, isn’t it?” Morse nodded to the painting. “That’s Cat Bells.”

“You know it?”

“I went once, when I was a boy. I don’t remember it much, but it was beautiful. So’s the painting.”

“I’m glad you think so. Perhaps one day you’ll be able to visit it again?” Morse looked up at him then, and Alan was stunned by how vibrant his hair somehow looked in spite of the dim lighting, and the lamp nearby cast flickers of gold in his eyes. And those eyes were so close and pinned on his with something unrecognisable.

“Perhaps I will,” Morse murmured, before closing the gap between them. The kiss was slow and tentative, almost uncertain, but when he kissed back Morse placed a hand on his waist and pulled him in, at the same time as he felt a hand on the back of his neck. He let out a muffled noise as fingers tangled in his hair, and Alan pulled back suddenly.

“Are you okay?” With their faces so close together, his voice was barely above a whisper, and he looked for any trace of pain or regret in Morse’s eyes.

“Yes, I’m fine.” The corner of Morse’s mouth quirked up, and Alan couldn’t keep his gaze on Morse’s eyes. “Are you?”

“Never better.” With that, he leaned in for another kiss. It was more confident this time on both sides. He tugged Morse’s jacket off and draped it over the nearby armchair, then once again moved up to those magnificent auburn waves, his other hand firmly on the small of Morse’s back, while the hands on his own waist slowly worked their way downwards. He responded by trailing his lips away across Morse’s jaw and down his neck, which elicited another sound from him, and then ever so languorously back up until he was practically gasping for their lips to reconnect. When the two split apart at last, foreheads resting on one another, he spoke again. “What time do you have to be at work?”

“I have another day’s leave, why?”

“Well, we’re closed again tomorrow, and if you don’t have to be in a rush in the morning, I really think it’s rather late for you to be walking home alone.” Morse raised an eyebrow. “That is, if you would like to stay,” Alan added, biting his lip. Morse kissed him once more, a short strong kiss, and laid his tie on top of his discarded jacket as he was led upstairs.


End file.
